Running waters
by Dannee-san
Summary: Few parents or caretakers realize the impact their words can have on a child. Even the BoyWhoLived can only take so much. Mild slash just a kiss HPDM at the end. Rated for angst.


AN Hope you guys like this. It's 2:14 am now. I just finished this. I'm making so many bloody typo's. I hope there's not too many mistakes I overlooked. Bit dubious on the rating. There's a lot of angst and disturbing stuff, so I made it R or M or whatever they're calling it now. IT'S A ONE-SHOT! So please don't ask for more.

Don't own Harry Potter.

Enjoy, or thereabouts. Let me know what you think?

* * *

Few parents or caretakers realize the impact their words can have on a child. Especially, the reinforcement of repetition can have profound consequences for the mental stability of the child, leading to a multitude of disorders, ranging from emotional stunting to self-destructive behaviour.

It was an ordinary day at the Dursley household. It was still quite early in the morning and Petunia Dursley could be seen preparing breakfast behind the stove. A blond, chubby boy was running around the kitchen table, seemingly chasing a figment of his child's imagination. In the livingroom Vernon Dursley sat on the couch watching the morning news on the telly.

Suddenly a crash sounded in the kitchen, immediately followed by a wail. It appeared Dudley had not been chasing a fantasy. No, ducking around the chairs, trying to avoid his larger cousin had been a small, six year old boy. He looked nothing like the people he lived with. Where all the Dursley's were blond, this boy had messy black hair and piercing green eyes. Eyes that were now widened in trepidation as they stared at the shards of what had been a plate with eggs and bacon and sauceges.

"You stupid boy!" Petunia shrieked. "Look what you did! Now I have to clean up after you again, I suppose, huh?" She angrily tossed the spatula on the counter. "Well, you can forget that. It's your fault, it's your breakfast. Clean it up. And don't think you'll be getting any more." She shoved a rag in the boy's arms and turned her back on him again.

Dudley stuck out his tongue at his strange, abnormal cousin. He was always pleased when Harry got into trouble, especially if _he_ got Harry into trouble. Harry got up on his knees and started clearing the mess his cousin had created. He had long since given up on pointing out his Aunt and Uncle's unfair treatment of him. Instead he just bowed his head and set to work.

Behind him, Petunia continued preparing breakfast for her husband and child, muttering not so silently about the woes her nephew forced her family in. "Silly boy. He always causes trouble. It's in his blood, of course, his parents being what they were. Vernon, dear, breakfast is ready! And of course, we just have to put up with it. I don't see how we could be related to someone so bad. Such a bad boy, bad blood. Just sit down, dear, I'll get your eggs." She bustled about, her foot hitting Harry's hip just a bit too hard to be an accidental touch. "Are you done yet, boy?" she bit.

"Almost, Aunt Petunia," he answered. He had already thrown away the food and the shards. He was now mopping up the smears of tomato sauce.

"What did he do now?" Vernon muttered disgruntled as he reached for a piece fo toast.

"Oh, he threw his plate on the floor. Honestly, I don't what possesses him to do such a thing."

Vernon harrumphed and swallowed a mouthful of eggs. "I know, it's those foolish parents of his. No offense to your family, Petunia dear, but your sister was... well, you know. And that husband of hers was just as bad, if not worse. It's no wonder the boy is turning out the way he does. No matter how hard we try, we can only do so much against that which lays in his blood."

Harry bowed his head to those words. He had heard them so many times already. 'It is in his blood.' He saw a shard he had missed earlier, near the leg of a chair. Reaching for it, he didn't notice his aunt returning to the counter. He did notice, however, when she tripped over his outstretched arm and had to grab the counter edge to keep from falling.

Vernon immediately shot up, concerned about his wife's well-being. And furious at the boy who threatened it. He hauled said boy up by the scruff of his shirt. "You insolent brat! Thought you could hurt your aunt, did you! Thought you could kill her maybe! Is this the thanks we get for taking you in! You horrid, filthy boy!" The raging man dragged Harry into the hallway, opening the door to the cupboard under the stairs. He threw the boy in. "You sit in there and think about what you've done. And don't expect any food either!" He slammed the door shut.

Harry curled up in the darkness of his cupboard. He didn't understand why he always did the wrong things, why he always made his uncle punish him. He squeezed his fists and started. He still had the shard in his hand. Through the ventilation slits in the door seeped enough light to see it. It was a plain white triangular shard, with two sharp edges. Harry watched the light play over it as he moved it this way and that. His eyes caught sight of the shadowy blood vessels running underneath his pale skin, carrying his bad blood, his filthy blood.

Suddenly his skin crawled and he felt panic at the thought of so much filth running through his veins. He had to get it out. With a hasty move he brought the shard down and cut through his skin.

The pain made him drop the shard. Biting his lip until it bled he stifled any sound he might make. The Dursley's never wanted to hear him. He watched as a few thin streams of dark liquid ran down his arm and dripped on the blanket. Maybe now it would be gone.

Maybe now the bad would be gone.

Harry was walking back from school. He kept a careful distance of six feet between himself and his cousin, who was walking with a few friends of his. As the walked along the street, one by one the boys turned other ways to enter their own homes. When they turned into Privet Drive, only Dudley was left. Harry still kept his distance. Dudley didn't need his friends to beat up on Harry. True, Harry was fast for his size, but just this morning, during break, Pierce Polkins had tripped him and he was now limping a bit. He hoped his ankle would be healed soon, so he could run away again.

Dudley was now ten years old, his birthday only two weeks ago. Like every year he lorded his age over Harry, until Harry's birthday came. Then Dudley just used his size to subdue his cousin, until his own birthday came up again. The cycle had repeated itself for as long as Harry could remember.

He was brought form his thoughts when the sound of a body hitting the pavement reached his ears. Dudley, clumsy as he was, had tripped over his own feet. His bag had opened and the contents had spilled all over the sidewalk. Dudley looked still a bit befuddled at suddenly laying on the ground.

Harry sighed and walked up to his cousin to begin gathering his things. By the time Dudley had made it back onto his feet, Harry was holding out his bag to him. His cousin looked quite the mess, hair out of place, scrapes on his hands and knees, smudges on his face. He snatched the satchel from Harry and stomped off to his home. Harry reluctantly shuffled after him.

Of course, when Aunt Petunia opened the door, she was immediately all over his son. "Oh, my dear Duddikins! What happened? Are you alright? Who did this? Are you in pain, my dear ickle Dudders?"

Dudley peaked at Harry from underneath his mother's arm and smirked. Then he turned into his mother's hug and sniffed theatrically. "He tripped me," the boy wailed.

Petunia's beady eyes immediately zoomed in on Harry. "You disgusting boy. Get into your cupboard. And I will discuss this with Vernon, rest assured. Now get out of my sight, you filth."

Harry ran to his cupboard and dove into it, shutting the door behind him. Curling up against the far wall, his hands quickly found the shard of a vase Dudley had broken two months ago, and for which he had been punished instead. Apparently, the bad still hadn't bled out of him. Bringing the sharp edge down again, just like so many times before, he tried to draw the bad blood out of him, watching it run down his arm, and disappear into the torn shirt he held underneath it.

Harry slammed the cupboard door shut behind him. His uncle knew about him talking to the snake. If only Pierce had kept his mouth shut. Now he had to try and get the bad out of him again. Why wouldn't it go away? He had tried so many times already. His nails scratched at the back of his hand, where dark veins ran. Why couldn't he get it out?

Harry curled up in his room in the Leaky Cauldron, his back to the talking mirror. He had done bad again. Horrible, despicable bad. He shouldn't have gotten so angry. Yes, Aunt Marge had wrongfully insulted his mother. It wasn't Lily Potter's fault her son was so bad, so filthy. Nor was it James's. No, it was all Harry's. Because he hadn't tried hard enough to get the bad blood out. He grabbed the knife he had brought upstairs form the common room and brought it across his wrist. Watching the blood pool on the floor next to the bed, he noticed a knife made a much better cut, than a shard of glass or pottery. Maybe now he could get the filth out. He would clean up the blood soon, with one of those all-absorbing rags he had bought last summer. They were great for getting rid of any pool of liquid.

Harry looked down at his bleeding arm, where Wormtail had dug his knife in. He watched the blood trickle down his skin, hoping that the ground of this cemetery, the grave of Voldermort's father would absorb the evil in him. The evil that had helped kill Credic. Then he could die peacefully. Because there was no way Voldemort would let him leave alive, now was there?

Was there?

It was Harry's third evening of detention with Dolores Umbridge. He had been writing the snetence 'I must not tell lies' for nearly two hours now. The back of his hand stung painfully. Then he noticed the wounds didn't close immediately anymore. Instead, they remained open and bled over the back of his hand. For a few moments he stared fascinated at the thin lines running down the sides of his hand and the drops hitting the parchment. Then Umbridge's not so subtle cough jerked him out of his reverie.

"Something the matter, dear?" she inquired quasi polite.

"No," he answered quickly. "Nothing." And he continued writing.

As the quill scratched the paper, new drops of blood fell from his hand. He pressed harder with the black quill and the pain increased, but so did the bleeding. More and more drops ran from his hand, down his fingers, underneath the cuff of his sleeve. Blood stained the parchment far more than the words from the quill point alone could accomplish. He scratched, harder and harder, drawing more and more blood, the point of the quill tearing the parchment at places.

Out, out. He wanted the blood out. The bad blood, the filthy blood. The blood he still blamed for the death of Cedric, and Bertha Jorkins, and the old man from the Riddle house.

And his parents. Oh god, his parents who had died for him. Would they still have done that had they known of the filth running through their son's veins?

Scratch, scratch, scratch, the quill went. And hsi blood continued dripping, forming a now steady flow. Only when he finally pressed too hard and cleanly tore the parchment in two, did he jerk back to himself.

"Goodness, boy, what _have_ you been doing!" Umbridge looked slightly horrified at the sight his workspace made. It was then, that Harry saw the amount of blood staining the parchment and the wood of that table, and the floor. With a hasty apology and a goodnight, he rushed form the office and down the hall to the closest bathroom. There, he tried to get rid of the blood underneath his shoes so they would at least leave no bloody prints behind. He ran his hands underneath the tab and watched the blood drain away. He looked up to find accusatory eyes staring back at him form the mirror.

He had run away before the bleeding was over,

No! No, bad! Very bad! His fault! All his fault! Because of his bad blood! And now Sirius was dead. Oh, he knew he blamed that Lestrange woman, and rightfully so, but she only carried part of the blame. It was him, his bad blood, his filthy blood, that brought badness to the people in his life. Take Mister Weasley, for instance. Oh how Harry had bled, that January, trying to get rid of as much bad blood as he could, but Sirius death had proven all his efforts in vain. He would have to bleed more than the last time to get rid of it. He didn't want any more people to get hurt because of his bad blood. He was terrified of losing Ron or Hermione, because of him. He had nearly lost them at the same time as Sirius. He didn't want that to happen again.

He watched his blood drip into the sink in the kitchen of the Dursley's, the sparse light of the night making the red liquid almost seem black. Black for the filth that was now draining away form him. Gone, gone, down the drain, never to return.

How much more would he have to bleed?

"Stay away from me, you filthy Mudblood," Malfoy snarked at Hermione. He immediately found himself staring at two wandpoints.

Harry gritted his teeth with suppressed rage at the blond's words. Hermione wasn't filthy. She was pure and clean. Just like everyone. Everyone except him. His wand trembled, before he could steady it again. Malfoy hadn't noticed. He just sneered, a little insecure underneath his mask. They weren't second years anymore. They could really hurt each other if they wanted to.

"Oh, don't kid yourselves. You couldn't hurt me even if you tried to."

Ron made to lunge at him, but Hermione held him back. "No, Ron, he isn't worth it."

That left Malfoy's attention to focus on Harry. "What's the matter, Potter? Don't have the balls to speak up for your Mudblood friend? I thought you of all people would. You're a filthy halfbreed yourself. Doesn't filth stick up for itself these days anymore? I'm disappointed." With a sneer, Malfoy whirled around in a flurry of robes that would have made Snape proud. Harry was left to stare after him and his cronies, laughing uproariously.

He turned back to his friends. Ron had quieted down a bit, but he was still scowling fiercely. He slung a protective arm tightly around Hermione's shoulders, a bit too tightly, with her cheek pressed to his chest like that, but he didn't seem to notice. "Oh, I wish I could really get to him, one day, you know? Stomp that pompous smirk of his right into the ground."

Harry just sighed dejectedly. "Snape would have you in detention before you could say _Mimbletonous Mimbletona_. Better not risk it, Ron." He pocketed his wand and turned away. "I'm going for a walk. See you in the common room."

He walked away from his friends and wandered the slowly darkening halls of Hogwarts.

_You're a filthy halfbreed yourself._ He flinched from the memory of the words. _A filthy halfbreed. You're a filthy halfbreed._ His hands clenched in his pockets, one around his wand, the other around a small muggle pocketknife. _You're filthy. Filth. You're filth._

He shuddered as he mounted the steps to the Astronomy Tower, slowly drawing the pocketknife out in the open. He pulled forth the blade and watched as the moonlight played over it. Maybe now he could bleed himself clean?

He settled with his back against the banister surrounding the open space of the tower and sought out his thickest veins. His wrists, he knew, were where he bled hardest, the filth pulsing through them at a maddening pace, waiting to be spilled into the night.

Suddenly furious, he brought the gleaming blade down across his wrist, ignoring the pain that came with slicing it open. He had long ago learned to ignore it. He watched as the blood gushed out, leaving him in a pulsating stream. It reflected the moon a bit as well, like the knife. Only the glow was distorted. Ruined by the filth in it.

He didn't hear the steps coming up the stairs, not the first few sneering words that died on the lips of the speaker. He hardly heard the shocked exclamation of, "Shit, Potter, what are you doing to yourself?"

In his fading sight he noticed Malfoy, of all people, crouching down in front of him to press a piece of his robe against the bleeding cut. He looked down at the pale hands pressing dark fabric against his wrist. "Is the filth out yet?" he murmured.

Grey eyes looked up in shock. "What are you going on about? Have you finally lost it completely?"

"You know," he said, tiredly. Malfoy's face seemed to be getting darker. "The filth. In my blood. That makes me bad. That's making people around me die."

"Moron," Malfoy muttered and raised Harry's bleeding arm above his head. "You didn't kill those people. You-Know-Who did. Really, I thought you were smarter than that."

"But I did get them end up dead," Harry tried to protest, but his tongue didn't seem to be working properly anymore. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the lids kept falling shut. Maybe sleeping wasn't such a bad idea, he mused. He could rest a bit from the bleeding. And in a few days he would try again.

"Potter? Potter! Stay awake, you hear me! I don't want to have to carry your sorry arse to the infirmary!"

Sleep sounded nice.

Draco sat in a chair next to Harry's hospital bed. It had been two hours since he had carried the other in and Madame Pomfrey had healed the boy and poured blood replenishing potions down his throat. He didn't know why he was still sitting here. Effing Potter and his stupid ways. Why's the moron gone and tried to kill himself?

But maybe it hadn't been suicide. 'Is the filth out yet?' he had asked. What had he talked about? Did he think there was something bad in his blood and he'd been trying to get it out? But why would he think that?

_You're a filthy halfbreed yourself._ Okay, so maybe that was why. But certainly Draco alone couldn't have done that. What Harry had done spoke of years of continuous reinforcement of those words by someone whom he considered to always tell the truth, like and adult, not some boy from his school. It might have something to do with his relatives. Draco'd heard they weren't the nicest people Harry could have landed with.

Just then Harry began to stir. Draco watched as the other teen turned over and back and finally opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Slowly his hand went up to his bandaged wrist and rubbed it thoughtfully.

"You really are a moron, you know?" Draco's words shot Harry upright. "Killing yourself isn't going to make anything better."

Harry looked down at his lap. "I wasn't trying to commit suicide. I just wanted... just..."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Just what?"

"Just wanted to get the filth out," the Gryffindor whispered.

Draco shook his head. "Look, I know I say weird things, but that doesn't mean there's actual filth in your blood. Granger isn't trying to bleed herself to death, is she?"

Harry shook his. "But Hermione is clean. I'm not."

"Bullshit. You're perfectly fine. Words said in spite have no meaning."

Green eyes looked up forlornly. "But everyone says I'm bad. Always."

"Really? Like who?"

Harry looked away again. "My family," he whispered.

Draco snorted. "Are you telling me, Potter, you actually listen to what those Muggles say? Then you're an even bigger idiot than I thought. What do they know?"

"They raised me," Harry protested.

"Right and that makes them experts. They're not your parents." He settled back in the chair and crossed his legs. "And believe me, not even parents get it right about their children all the time."

Harry looked back hesitantly. "But how can I not be filthy? I have always done wrong. I broke plates and vases and made things dirty and did things wrong and screwed things up and got people killed." His voice had risen and he nearly shouted those last words.

Draco shot forward. "Now you didn't," he bit, pushing Harry back down onto the bed. "Every kid is clumsy and breaks things, but those deaths weren't your fault. You're blowing this way out of proportion. You. Are. Fine. And if other people can't see that, they're blind." He pressed a little harder, trying to convey the import of his words. "You are not filthy. You're the fucking purest moron that ever walked the school, hell, the earth. Why do you think You-Know-Who wants you dead so badly? He's the filth and you have to wash it away."

Harry stared wide-eyes at the other above him, green eyes shimmering with wonder. "You mean that?" he whispered, his breath ghosting along Draco's skin.

"Hell, yeah," Draco murmured. "You are the purest being in the world, moron, and considering I'm the one admitting to it, it must be true, don't you think?"

Harry closed his eyes, his teeth digging into his lower lip. Draco was worried. He was seeing a side of the Boy-Who-Lived he never knew could exist in any person, let alone Harry Potter. What if the other didn't believe him? And even if he did, tonight, he would have to be retold many times over.

His thoughts were cut short, when lips pressed to his own. Too surprised to do anything he felt Harry brushed his lips over his mouth before withdrawing, staring straight into his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered. "It helps. A bit."

Draco stared down in those green eyes, not quite believing what he had just felt. He leaned down and pressed his own mouth against Harry's, arms slipping around each other's body, trying whether it really felt the same.

It did.

Harry bled no more.


End file.
